


seasons

by apocalyptically



Category: Iron Fist (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Claire and Colleen make a cameo appearance, Danny and Joy are mentioned, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-10 21:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12308613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocalyptically/pseuds/apocalyptically
Summary: From springtime strolls to warming up in the winter: fluffy snapshots of Ward Meachum through the seasons.





	seasons

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a four-sentence, seasonal-aesthetic sort of thing and... slowly escalated? Ward has that effect on me. The premise is that Ward and Reader grew close, having been through the pain and angst of Iron Fist S1 together (I also took liberties with the timeline and included references to the events of The Defenders), but it takes a while for one of them to make the first move.

Ward Meachum in the spring: rearranging the furniture in his office, cleaning out his desk drawers and fast-tracking a facilities work order to remove the safe hidden in the wall panel. “It could be useful,” you say, picking up a yellow stress ball that has seen better days. “Where are you going to keep your top secret files?” 

He gives you a wry half-smile from behind his coffee mug and nods at the badge clipped to the lapel of your blazer. “Do you have clearance for that information? That, if I’m not mistaken, is a visitor’s pass.”

You mime throwing the ball at him. “The V stands for VIP.”

“Of course it does. I’ll send out a memo.” He leans back on the sofa and takes a sip of his coffee. “Well, there’s already a safe over there behind my desk. No point in having a secret one with a location that all the ninjas and contractors who’ve been through here have already seen. I’m open to your very important suggestions, but it’s my experience that keeping too many secrets is a one-way street. Mainly to psychiatric detention and severe head wounds.”

“So… send all the secrets to Legal and let them handle it?”

“I was worried you were going to tell me to let Danny handle it.” 

You laugh. “No, get rid of the safe like you planned. We’re all sick of secrets, I think.”

He’s looking at you, brow slightly creased, and you glance away, studying the room. It’s the first time you’ve set foot in his office. The extensive renovations and repair work required after the explosion, believed by many employees and shareholders to be caused by a gas leak in the building, have only been completed recently. Before the incredible events of that night, you had tried to come up on one occasion and you hadn’t made it past the lobby — Ward had stopped you, his voice flat and hard but with an underlying tone of urgency, his eyes glassy with a sheen of anxiety. He had been afraid of his father catching sight of you on a camera, but you hadn’t known that. At the time, it just seemed like he was trying to get rid of you because he didn’t want to be seen in public with you. At the time, it had hurt. The memory aches dully like an old bruise, and you give the stress ball an involuntary squeeze.

All that is behind you, though. His father is dead, and the number of times Ward gets the entire floor swept for surveillance devices gradually falls to once a week. He replaces the wall safe with a bookcase. While you’re helping him organize his books, you playfully ask, “Do any of these have hollow compartments to hide secret documents?” and he replies, “You’ve found me out. Now I have to dig a hole under the building and hide all my secrets behind a magic door.” At your confused look, he says, “Danny gave me the idea. You should ask him to tell you that story.”

Your visitor’s pass is eventually upgraded to a clearance level with special privileges, granting you access to his fancy espresso machine, if not his top secret files. He takes you up on your offhand suggestions to wear a pastel floral tie and to sprinkle dried lavender in his coffee, and even to go for a weekend stroll every now and then. It was during one such stroll, walking next to him along the Mall in Central Park, when raindrops begin to paint the pavement. He opens the umbrella you remembered to bring (“Such foresight,” he says, and you can’t tell if he’s making fun of you) and you move closer to him beneath its shelter, the sounds of the city receding to the hurrying footsteps of people without the foresight to check the weather forecast. “It’s not so bad,” you say, but Ward angles the umbrella so that you receive more protection from the drizzle. You become excruciatingly conscious of the space between you: how it stretches and narrows with your movements, how it’s filled with quiet and warmth and secrets you haven’t told each other yet. You think about taking his arm, but don’t, content to let it brush yours as you continue to walk.

*

Ward Meachum in the summer: cold brew coffee, longer days translating into longer hours at work, coaxing him out of the air-conditioned safety of his office and away from quarterly reports to an ice cream truck stopped right on the doorstep of Rand Enterprises. “They can’t park here,” he says, but you’re joining the line and he reluctantly follows. 

“What do you feel like?” you ask, pointing at the colourful confections painted on the side of the truck.

“Going back inside,” Ward drawls in response. “You _are_ aware there’s a heat advisory?” He shrugs out of his suit jacket, not entirely out of place in the crowd; there are plenty of other customers in professional attire, not to mention students, tourists, parents with small children in tow, all united by the promise of cold treats.

You roll your eyes. “It’s such a gorgeous day. Think of all the vitamin D we’re getting out here!”

“Does the D stand for dehydration?”

“You won’t be grumpy after ice cream.”

And he’s not, but you’re unsure what to make of his reaction. He gazes at the chocolate vanilla twist waffle cone in his hand. Ward Meachum continues to astound you with his vulnerability, and to vex you with his inscrutability. “I haven’t had one of these since I was a kid,” he says. “It’s melting!” you yelp, startling him out of some childhood memory too late. His jacket narrowly escapes from harm, but you’re horrified that ice cream has gotten on the sleeve of his pristine shirt. Ward is curiously calm as you give him your waffle cone to hold while you dig a tissue and a stain remover pen out of your purse and start dabbing his arm. “Such foresight, I know,” you mumble. 

He watches you, the corner of his mouth lifting with fond amusement. “Don’t worry, I’ve gotten worse things on better shirts.”

“Do I want to know?” 

“Not if you’re unwilling to testify against me. What was that for?” he protests when you poke him with the pen.

“Trying to be funny.”

He lifts the waffle cones in a gesture of supplication, a damp lock of hair falling into his eyes. “Can we go back inside to eat this, or are we watching it drip on the ground?” 

You plan a picnic in the park for a day with no heat advisory, but Ward ends up thwarting said plan so that you fall asleep on the sofa while waiting for his meetings and teleconferences to end. The two of you wind up picnicking in his office long after everyone else has gone home. You don’t mind. The city at night is beautiful, even if you can’t see the stars amid the skyscrapers, and the fruit salad is still good, even if the charcuterie and cheese platter has gone off. You decide to order from your favourite Caribbean place instead. He tells you over takeout boxes about a long-ago summer day when his parents took him and his sister to Coney Island. You start to reach out tentatively, wanting to rest your hand on his. He turns his head, and you lose your breath in expectation of something to happen, but it’s the elevator bell that has his attention. “The night cleaners are here,” he observes.

“Yeah,” you say. “They sure arrived at the right time.” Ward gives you a sharp glance and you try to mask the peevishness in your tone. “We have a lot of garbage.”

“And baggage,” Ward says, but before you can figure out what he means he’s up and carrying empty food containers away, and the opportunity’s gone.

*

Ward Meachum in the fall: urging him to try drinking more tea than pumpkin spice lattes (he’s partial to pu’erh and lapsang souchong), sharing a double-yolk mooncake with you after a Mid-Autumn Festival dinner hosted by Danny and Colleen at the Royal Dragon, browsing bookstore aisles on a rare day off, casual in that leather jacket you hate because it gives him an unfair advantage when you get into disagreements. “We should do something for Hallowe’en,” you say, picking up a book from a horror display festooned with cotton cobwebs. “Dress up.” 

He makes a sound halfway between a chuckle and a snort. “Joy convinced me to do that once. Company costume party. There is no photographic evidence,” he adds when your eyes light up with glee. “You won’t find any pictures. I’ve purged them all from record.”

“Impossible. The Internet remembers everything.” You sidle up to him and give him a gentle nudge with your shoulder. “What were you, a vampire? I bet you were a vampire.”

He winces. “Am I that predictable?”

He doesn’t seem to realize he mentioned his sister’s name without a hint of sadness or regret. Deciding it’s a good thing, you leave him to process the memory and wander deeper into the store. You find him later in the travel section, intent on South America, and blithely pick up the conversation. “What about some sort of Hallowe’en charity event? It’ll be so good for PR. Do it for the company!”

He closes his eyes briefly and sighs, but a smile is tugging at his lips. “If you must know, Landman and Zack are hosting a benefit and would welcome more sponsors. I believe they’re calling their event a Haunted Hootenanny.” He enunciates each syllable with skeptical exaggeration.

“I approve. Go sign up.”

“I haven’t even told you where the proceeds are going.”

“Food banks? Children’s hospital?”

He spreads his hands. “You didn’t even need three guesses. Rand has always been a major supporter of research in pediatric — ”

“Save it for the press conference,” you say with a grin, crossing your arms. “So you’ll do it? Wear a costume?”

“No.”

“You can’t meet and greet sick kids on Hallowe’en and not wear a costume.”

“The sick kids won’t be at the event. At most, they’ll trot out one or two for a media photo op.”

“But you should visit the hospital! I’m sure there’ll be trick-or-treating for families who want to participate. Think of the amazing pictures you can include in your next presentation to the board.”

Ward narrows his eyes at you. “As if I don’t already play pretend in front of the board, you want me to literally wear a costume for them?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Did Danny put you up to this?”

“No! But I bet he’ll want to do it. The two of you giving out candy! Front page of the _Bulletin_.”

“Imagine that,” Ward says with a grimace.

“Never mind then.” You randomly pull a book off the shelf and flip through it. “I just thought — ”

“No. You’re right.” He clears his throat. “Good cause, great publicity. Joy would agree with you.”

Cautiously, you look up from the beckoning vistas of Istanbul. “You can probably miss the benefit if you visit the hospital.” 

“No, it’s better to do both,” he says, resigned. “But we’re not staying long.” 

_We? Did he just invite you to a Haunted Hootenanny?_ You almost choke on your reply, and try to pass it off as being impressed by a city map. “Fine with me. We can leave early, go watch an old monster movie.”

“Not _The Curse of Frankenstein_ ,” he says, before grudgingly adding, “That sounds like a much more enjoyable Hallowe’en.”

You beam at him, and after a moment his face softens into that smile that makes you want to snuggle him in warm blankets. He takes the book out of your hands and looks at the cover. “Ever been to Turkey?”

“Don’t change the subject. We need to choose a costume for you. Or were you hinting that you want to dress up as a turkey?”

He groans, but he’s still smiling. 

*

Ward Meachum in the winter: snowflakes melting on his cashmere scarf when you convince him to venture outside and see the carol singers performing on a street corner, appreciative hums when you experiment with adding cocoa or cinnamon or peppermint to his coffee, bemused and incredulous expressions when he returns from a meeting to discover that you and Megan had put up a tree in the office, and that Danny had skipped the aforementioned meeting to help.

Despite your attempts to spread holiday cheer, the most wonderful time of the year appears to be taking a toll on Ward. You know he’s made great efforts these past months to pull back from work; though they’re not entirely successful, he’s been drinking less, sleeping more, and even his chronic pain has improved. Still, you worry every time you see him open a bottle of bourbon or rub his temples while on the phone (“No, Danny, that’s _not_ how Christmas bonuses work.”).

You wonder when he’s going to take that hypothetical long vacation he’s mentioned a few times — he never elaborates on his plans, and you don’t want to hassle him on the subject. What if you come off as trying to invite yourself along? When he’s away on business trips, you always feel like you’re bothering him when you talk on the phone. Except for that time with the earthquake, when you had to pacify his frantic questions by repeatedly assuring him you were fine, you didn’t need him to come back to New York immediately, nor did you require a chartered jet to fly you out of the state. You recall how it made you blush, thinking how concerned he was about you, and forcefully reminding yourself that he checked on Joy and Danny, too.

The fact of the matter is you’re not anything other than his friend, contrary to what everyone assumes. This issue comes up at lunch one day when Claire makes a cute reference to you and Colleen dating business partners, you splutter your way through a denial, and they both stare at you in confusion.

“I’m not an expert on relationships,” says Colleen, shaking her head. “So explain to me, how are you not in one with Ward Meachum? What do you call this thing that’s been going on?”

“Maybe we can get Danny to help them,” muses Claire. “Hang some mistletoe in the elevator and trap them inside.”

“That’s a terrible plan,” Colleen objects.

“You don’t get to criticize my terrible plan after you blew up a building.”

“Didn’t you help her with that?” you interject, hoping to distract them from your relationship status. It works.

It proves much harder to distract yourself, however, since you’re meeting up with Ward later on that afternoon. Already grouchy because he received invitations to three more holiday parties and he can only decline one, he is especially disgruntled when you persuade him to go gift-shopping with you, and you end up in a souvenir shop hunting for knick-knacks. “This is exactly the sort of stuff Danny would get a kick out of,” you argue, waving around a novelty climbing toy where a miniature Spider-Man ascends the Statue of Liberty with the push of a button, and Ward responds, “And that’s exactly why some would say Danny’s an idiot and you are enabling him.” 

You sniff. “You’re just mad I shot down your cufflinks idea.”

“Five thousand dollar cufflinks,” he points out.

“Trust me, if you want to give Danny something, go with a charitable donation. He’ll appreciate it more and then he’ll be motivated to listen to you at work.” 

Ward gives a long-suffering sigh. “Everybody wins.”

The highlight of the day is pulling him into the tiny photo booth at the back of the store on a whim. “It’s a relic!” you insist. “I can see that,” he says dryly. You try to get him to rehearse four different poses but his face threatens to scowl in all of them, so you give up and resolve to run with it. Once the camera is activated, you regret putting yourself in such close quarters with him: his thigh is pressed against yours on the cramped bench, and you don’t know what to do with your elbows. Right before the last shot, you see him raising a hand with middle finger extended, and you are filled with a burst of fierce frustration. You blame it on holiday stress afterward ( _after Ward_ ), but at that moment it’s sheer annoyance with him that makes you lean over just as the flash goes off, stopping his hand with yours, flexing and curling your fingers around his. “You messed up the picture,” you say evenly. You don’t let go.

He holds your gaze for too many heartbeats, before breaking into a shaky laugh low in his throat. “Sorry, I do that. Mess things up.” He looks down at where your hands are intertwined. “I’m a mess, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Your irritation evaporates and you feel guilty and selfish about dragging him in here. “No, you're not. You’re doing really well, Ward.” Is it your imagination, or has he leaned closer to you? Almost reflexively, you draw little spirals on his palm with your thumb. “I'm so proud of you. In case you haven’t noticed.”

He meets your eyes again, and there’s something uncertain and hopeful in his expression. Impulsively, you decide to bring your lips to his cheek and brush a kiss along his jaw. You hear the sharp intake of his breath.

“Do you ever think about… what we could have?” he says softly. He traces a finger over your knuckles, and it seems to you that it is much too hot in the little booth.

“Hm?” you murmur, fascinated by how the touch of your mouth makes his eyelids flutter as if drowsy. 

“If we had just left, the night I told you about my father. Or if none of that happened…”

“We can still have it,” you whisper, kissing his cheek again. “I know we can.” He's stroking the inside of your wrist now; emboldened, you kiss his ear.

Suddenly his hand is brushing your hair back and cupping your face. “Such foresight,” he says seriously. “Are you going to wait until New Year’s Eve to kiss me?” you ask. That makes him smile. “We can expedite the schedule.”

The photographic evidence of what happened in the booth shows three snapshots of him smiling awkwardly while you pull silly faces, and a blur in the last picture. You get the strip of photos framed in a narrow silver-plated rectangle. It’s now on his desk at work. He won’t be looking at it again until the two of you get back from vacation, of course.


End file.
